"Think not of them, O Dwain, but of yourself. Now, the moment approaches—"
"Wait," breathed Steve hastily. "There is one thing vitally important. You heard my request for distillation apparatus?"
"Yes."
"Then somehow see that this machinery is smuggled to those in the camp. Will you do this?"
"I will, O Dwain. And now, in the name of freedom, strike—and strike hard!"
And with the words, Amarro sheared the bonds from Duane's wrists, thrust a hand against Steve's shoulder coarsely, and cried that all might hear, "Into your wallow, pig of Earth! Join your fellow—aaah!"
His sentence died in a groan as Steve, obeying his instructions to the letter, tore the weapon from his grasp and slashed it violently across the Daan's head. Amarro sank to the ground, a limp and sodden mass. And Duane fled.
Hours later, when Stephen Duane and Amarro met again, it was under strangely new conditions. When, from the tiny island upon which his precipitant flight had ended, he heard throbbing in his ears the hum of an atomic motor similar to that propelling the boat which conveyed him hither, he rose and sought cover, emerged only when he was certain the arrival was none other than his newfound ally. Then he hurried to the beach and welcomed Amarro.
"Thank God," he breathed, "you're all right! I couldn't wait to see. But you fell so heavily I was afraid I struck too hard."